


Duet

by PseudonymMcWriter



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudonymMcWriter/pseuds/PseudonymMcWriter
Summary: Connor invites you back to his apartment. It becomes difficult to ignore the tension in the air.Inspired by the sexiest movie scene of all time:HerePart Two:Deviant
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 167





	1. Duet

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments and Kudos! I have now written a follow-up/"spiritual sequel": [Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738274).
> 
> I also have other Connor/Reader fics you can find here: [How To Heal You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998368), [Touch-Starved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250543), [Never Thought I'd Be Into This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092566), [Guess I'm Into This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761338), [What I Want](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969554), [Symbiosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803791), [Android Puberty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703520/chapters/67801961), [Christmas Party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959723/chapters/68477054) and [Science Fiction/Double Feature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696857/chapters/70354788).

A piano is the last thing you expect to see in Connor's apartment. The high-rise suite is sleek, beautiful, but sparsely furnished - even by modern standards. His open-plan living and kitchen area is, unsurprisingly, spotless. There’s a single hallway branching off to what you assume is the bedroom and bathroom. Both doors are closed, but it’s probably safe to say they’re equally untouched.

It feels odd, picturing the android living here, with so much empty space, and rooms he had no use for. Does he get lonely? Does he even come here that often?

You pull your attention back to the piano, to this piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. 

"Can you play?" You ask. Connor is looking out of the window, out at the city skyline, but when you speak he turns to face you at once. He tilts his head as you gesture at the only item of furniture that stands out from the whole room.

He looks at it as if he’s never even noticed it before. Maybe he really doesn’t come here often. "I'm sure I have the capacity, but it isn't part of my programming."

"I suppose music literacy isn't an important part of being a detective," You smile, trailing your fingers along its glossy surface.

"Hank would disagree with you." He says, watching as you seat yourself at the piano, on the edge of the stool as if you’re expecting him to shoo you off. He doesn’t, of course. Instead he comes over, and the low warmth in his voice, suddenly much closer behind you, takes you by surprise: "Can you play?"

"Mhm," You hum. "Not well, but I took some lessons when I was a kid."

"They offered me a range of items. I didn't know what to choose," Connor explains, almost apologetically - as if he resents such a needless expense on his behalf. It’s true, the apartment is much, much nicer than anything you’ve ever seen before, but you can’t exactly blame Connor for it. You’d been surprised enough just to hear he’d been given his own space at all. Besides, it’s a beautiful piano. You fill in the blanks about why he’d chosen it.

"Hank. Jazz. Got it." You laugh. "I'm afraid it's not my style."

"You can play something else. If you'd like," He adds quickly, and then: "I'd like to hear it."

He probably sensed your heartbeat quicken and assumed you didn't want to. You prefer that to the truth. It’s embarrassing; you’ve spent plenty of time around Connor before now, there’s no reason to be so nervous. No, the fact that you’re in his apartment... that’s negligible. Meaningless. You’re just two friends hanging out. Playing the piano. Like friends do.

Yep.

Letting out a breath, you adjust your position on the stool, taking a more central seat, and carefully place your fingers on the keys. Spotless. No dust. Nothing at all. The piano you'd been taught on had decades worth of grime lodged between the keys, to the point where most of the keys simply hadn't worked anymore. You realize suddenly that maybe you don't actually know how to play the piano - you know how to play less than half of a piano. 

You can feel Connor's gaze on your back, polite and expectant. Surely he can feel your discomfort, the way your heart thuds and your skin turns warm, but he makes no effort to relieve you. It seems out of character; the Connor you know wouldn't purposely leave a friend in discomfort. And yet...

You quieten your thoughts and try a key. It does, thankfully, make the noise you’re expecting. Maybe this isn't so bad.

The piano has a digital interface with a range of songs and you pick one you recognize - nothing too wild, you don't want to push your luck. You’ve only been playing for a short time when you become aware of Connor standing next to you, towards the lower notes of the piano. Carefully, with enough time for you to adjust, he slides onto the stool beside you. It’s so unexpected, so bold and out of character, at first you nearly jump up out of his way - as if he’d suddenly had a misfire in his synthetic synapses and forgotten you were already sitting here. You don’t know what keeps you playing; maybe it’s your brain frantically weighing up the two options: if you stand up, Connor will apologise immediately and things’ll turn stiff and awkward, whereas if you stay put... well, it seems to you that the potentials veer a little closer to the harmless fantasies you’ve been entertaining about him. Sharing something together, being close to him... and you are very close. 

It’s a tight fit, even with him balancing almost half of his weight on his left leg. Your leg is pressed against his in a way that makes your fingers stumble, momentarily losing the rhythm, but Connor picks up the tune flawlessly, his eyes on the interface, his fingers moving as if he's been playing for years.

You face forwards, feeling like you have to concentrate on thinking with your fingers rather than... well, any other part of your body - brain included. He’s so close you can feel him even against the parts of you he isn't touching; the slightly-inhuman warmth of his skin, the thrum of biocomponents that vibrate the air between you. Every now and then his right arm slides close to your left as he compliments the tune with the appropriate duet. He hits every note as it comes up onscreen, while you feel like you could screw up at any moment. The stress is getting to you. You glance up at him distractedly and he looks back, and the shit-eating android bastard has the GALL to smirk at you.

"I thought you said you didn't play," You say at once, accusingly, your hands coming away from the piano. He maintains his side of the duet without pause.

"I understand that some people find it intimidating if an android becomes boastful." Connor looks forwards, tone matter-of-fact, despite the very slight tug at his lips as you stare at him.

"Oh, is that right?" You laugh, incredulous, enjoying the smug look on his face. 

"I thought it might be demoralising."

"I bet," You choke out, all tension suddenly alleviated. You notice again that he’s very diligently following the sheet music. An idea springs to mind.

You place your fingers back on the piano with vigour, following a tune you’d once made up yourself, a long time ago. Connor looks at you at once, and then at the sheet music, and then back at you. His fingers slow, then stop. You see the ring on his temple flicker yellow - as if he’s frantically searching for any record of the tune you’re playing - and then swiftly return to blue when he realizes there is none. Turning to quirk a brow at him, you manage a little shrug, your fingers keeping up the pace. Connor's gaze shifts down to follow them as they dance across the keys. A hesitant jerk of his hands proceeds a much more confident and characteristically smooth action as he places his fingers back on the keys and slowly, carefully, begins to copy your movements. With his eyes trained on your hands, you feel conscious of every muscle, every pore, every unmanicured nail, knowing he can see everything. 

With him copying your movements so completely, the resulting tune sounds a little janky. Even to your meager human ears, it’s clear there’s something missing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Connor's LED turn yellow again, a steady flicker in his temple pulsing a mere inch or two from yours. Never tearing his gaze from your hands, he begins to deviate - an extra note here, a key there. You feel enraptured, by the music, by him, as he begins to form his own song, his own side of a duet with you.

His eyes are closed with concentration, his LED whirring and blinking like it’s on the fritz.

It isn't conscious, and maybe it’s just you, but there’s something about the melody that stirs you. It’s part fairytale, part horror - the impression of a chase, a pursuit, a seduction. You can feel it, and you wonder if he can too. No. No probably no-...

Connor suddenly shifts his body. You hadn't seen him glance towards the other end of the piano, past your hands - you'd been too engrossed in your own thoughts - so his movement takes you by surprise. He leans behind you, right arm stretching easily around yours to reach the sweetest, lightest keys. His chest presses against your back, and you can feel the steady hum of his thirium pump - like the rumble of an engine - and the light huffs of his breath against the back of your neck. Enclosed in his arms like this, you feel both trapped and embraced, both safe and deathly vulnerable. You can’t keep your breathing under control, made worse by the knowledge that Connor’s right at your back, feeling every rise and fall of your ribs. You'd thought the lower notes had been the source of the darkness in the piece, but they’re nothing compared to the sweet chime ringing from his right hand, while your own hands struggle to keep up, to keep ahead. If this is a chase, he’s closing in. You’re vaguely aware that his left hand has now switched to simply copying yours again, side-by-side always only just avoiding touching you, a perfect mimic.

With your body closed in on itself, pressed inwards by his, the tension in your thighs alleviates some of the desire for friction you’re trying very hard to ignore. All the while, Connor plays, the rhythm of neither his music nor his breathing changing at all. 

Almost as soon as it starts, it’s over. Connor slows, and then withdraws, continuing the song to its natural end away from you. With his body heat suddenly pulled away, you almost feel cold.

The last notes are played and the silence that follows feels unbearable. You clear your throat and slide out from under the piano, feeling somehow exposed. Connor follows quickly. You think he seems thoroughly unaffected, robotic even, but then you see his LED - it’s red.

"Connor?" Your voice is soft, but it still sounds too loud, too echoey in this big, barren apartment. He cringes, his hands coming up quickly to adjust his tie as he turns his head away from you - as if he can hide the evidence. "What's wrong?"

He looks like he's been caught doing something wrong. You’d have found it funny, endearing, sweet, even, if not for the look of panic in his eyes.

"It's alright..." You murmur, hands out, palms towards him, like you’re calming an animal. He eyes you warily as you take small, measured steps towards him, but he doesn't budge an inch. As you approach, his LED flickers and then cycles amber. You stop short and drop your hands. "Please don't wig out on me. These hands were made for tickling ivories, not boxing an android."

He regards you with a guarded look; he almost looks offended at your reaction, like he can't believe you’re treating him so delicately, as if there’s something wrong with him - something irrational, something broken. You can see it’s tearing him apart, the possibility that he’s done something catastrophically wrong. That he might be faulty. That he is... he’s a...

"It's okay, you know," You try to sound encouraging without being patronising, and probably fail considering the way his eyes narrow slightly. "It's okay to be scared."

"I'm not scared," Connor says quickly, indignantly. "Are you scared?"

"No," You say, just as fast, even as the gravity of what just happened threatens to overwhelm you if you even acknowledge it. "Are you?"

The edges of his lips quirk a little at your clumsy repetition. "You're standing very far away."

"Am I?" Unconsciously, you hug your body. The more he turns the discomfort back on you, the slower his LED spins. The first band of blue finally rotates around his temple. "From where I'm standing it seems like you're far away from me."

It’s a challenge, or an invitation. Connor straightens his shoulders, but his head is slightly lowered, and the look he gives you from beneath his brows...

Is he..?

No. Connor's an android. He's THE android; the deviant hunter. Whatever you'd just seen is another part of his programming. It isn't... it couldn't possibly be...

You turn away, trying to distract yourself before you do something you’ll regret. Unfortunately the sparse decor makes it difficult to find something to pretend to be interested in. You end up backtracking to the kitchen, realizing too late it’s probably rude to look in his fridge - even if it is empty.

"I was expecting blue blood," You say aloud, just for something to say.

“No, my supply of thirium is at the station.” Connor explains, sounding glad for the change of subject. You cast a look back over your shoulder to find that he’s standing closer than before, but still at a polite distance. 

A safe distance. 

A platonic distance. 

It bothers you. 

"How did you do that?" You round on him suddenly, cutting him off. "With the piano?"

His LED, which had been a calming blue, flashes yellow like a warning; but his expression doesn't tighten up like it had before, instead it seems to grow lax, like he’s just incredibly tired.

"I don't know," His voice is so quiet you can barely hear him. He looks almost pitiful, it doesn't suit him at all.

"It's my fault," You start. "I shouldn't have thrown you off like that, it wasn't fair."

"No, I..." His LED is spinning frantically now, his body tensing up, clenching like a fist. It’s like you can actually see the gears turning in his head.

"Maybe it's because you're so advanced?" You try, when he doesn't say anything more. "It doesn't have to mean..."

Connor nods, but he doesn't look that convinced. Neither are you, but the look of worry and discomfort in his eyes makes you sick.

"It could be... adaptive," You suggest, struggling to find the right words. You don't know a damn thing about androids, but Connor’s looking at you like he’s hanging on every word. "Maybe it's social programming. Maybe I was just that brilliant on the piano your chip was like: 'Fuck, she’s amazing. I need to keep up.' Androids probably have to make small improvisations all the time, and you're the best android so obviously..." You finish by waving at him, as if the evidence stands for itself, a lame smile on your face. Despite your clear deficiency in lucid thought, Connor seems to be seriously thinking it over.

"I was trying to impress you," He says slowly. You flush, but if he notices he doesn't let on. "That is the way I was designed; to... facilitate good relations..."

"Right," You agree quickly.

"To be a pleasura-... a pleasing partner."

"Sure."

You both nod. Connor's LED is still yellow. You swallow, considering whether or not to say what you want to say. Your tongue feels heavy, the words hanging like a hammer, ready to smash you both to pieces: "And the end?"

Connor shifts, looking again like he's been caught doing something wrong. "I thought you... I'm sorry if I misread..."

"No, no you didn't."

Connor looks at you. He’s doing it again, that thing; his face tipped slightly down, his eyes dark and a little intimidating. Everything about his expression, his posture, warns you away; his eyes are trained on every muscle and every change in your expression. He knows your decision the moment you do.

"Connor..." You step closer to him, this time not stopping short like a coward. You've never touched him before, it had never seemed... appropriate. Not that it's any easier now; it still feels like you’re fighting against an invisible barrier just to get close to him, but you persist. And he lets you.

Slowly, so slowly it hurts, you slide your palm down against his clenched fist, feeling his fingers slowly unfurl, the tension in his synthetic muscles relaxing, as he returns your touch. Palms against each other, your bodies so close you can’t breathe without brushing against his chest, you stay still. He’s not looking at you, and you aren’t looking at him. You’re both looking over each other’s shoulders, as if you’re unaware of what your hands are doing. Still, you can see the way his jaw tightens in your periphery and you feel the change when he pulls back the skin on his hand, touching the warmth of your flesh with the pristine, factory white plastic of his true skin.

You know he’s waiting for you to look at him; he can read every change in your heartbeat, every lapse in breath and every chemical imbalance, and probably every score on your damn SATs, but he’s waiting for something else. A more human connection.

You can’t move quickly. It feels as if you’re operating within a sensitive environment, and any fast or sudden movement will sound the alarm. As if you could ever trick his sensors. In a way, the fact that he knows what you’re doing and allows you to do it gives you the courage to continue. You tilt your head up, still unable to meet his gaze, and he begins to tilt his down; your streams of breath eventually crossing, coalescing, as your parted lips come close to each other. Your confidence wavers at the end - or maybe it’s because you feel suddenly light-headed, or maybe it’s because he’s just so damn tall - and your lips fall short of his and press softly against the corner of his mouth.

The rush of cool air that comes from Connor's nose and hits your neck finally draws your gaze to his, only to find that he's closed his eyes. There’s a little frown between his eyebrows, and the edges of his eyelids are slightly crinkled as he squeezes them shut. His LED is red, but that and his facial expression seem at odds with the rest of his body, which you can feel is relaxing closer to you. He must feel you smile against him, because his expression softens and he opens his eyes to look at you. 

His hand slides upwards, from your palm to your forearm, and he gently tugs you closer as he tilts his head down and grants you access to his mouth. It’s like he’s purposely leaving you wanting; he isn't simply allowing you to continue, but he’s doing the bare minimum when it comes to reciprocating. It’s as if he prefers to see you work for it, and you’re happy to oblige, for now. 

Reaching up on your tip-toes, you take his bottom lip between yours, moving slowly, gently, like you’re teaching him how to kiss. His lips are hard and stiff at first, still tight with stress, but quickly become softer and more compliant beneath yours. You notice his grip on your arm become just slightly tighter, but you still feel like you’re doing too much. 

You pull away, meeting his gaze without hesitation this time. "Connor, I need to know you... you actually want..."

His hand releases your arm and joins the other to cup your face, returning to his human-like skin. His thumbs brush gentle strokes across your cheeks, the edges pressing a little more firmly against the ridge of your cheekbones, in a move so soft and loving it feels more intimate than the kiss. Holding your head in place, he leans forwards and lays his forehead against yours affectionately. Then he kisses you. Like with the piano, he mimics you at first, soft and gentle and slow, but with more precision and care than any first kiss you've ever had. You moan softly against him, partly because you can't help it, but mostly because it feels right to let him know that you like what he’s doing. 

Even if you don't know - or dare to accept - what’s just happened to him, you know Connor will always want praise; it’s why the two of you bonded so well in the first place, because you were comfortable complimenting him on a job well done, often when nobody else would. It was almost shocking how easy it had been to grow close to him, how often he had sought you out when he didn't need to, just because he liked the way you treated him. Maybe he likes the way you make him feel, maybe he's been experiencing these lapses in programming for much longer than you think. You could smack yourself for not seeing it sooner.

Your lips open a little more and you trace your tongue over his bottom lip. He freezes, thumbs coming to a halt on your face. You assume at once that he doesn't like it, but when you go to pull away, to apologize, he only holds you more tightly. Gingerly, he uses his lips to tease yours open, and the next thing you feel is his tongue cautiously sliding between your lips to tap, like a curious animal, against the tip of yours. At that small, innocent contact, he groans and suddenly presses flush against you, his hands sliding back to tangle in your hair.

Out of all of the parts of Connor that can pass as human, his tongue is not one of them. It isn't smooth and wet like a human tongue, it’s more solid and covered with tiny little bumps - no doubt something to do with the sensors he has there. No wonder it affects him so greatly when he pushes it into your mouth, feels your tongue sliding over it, the warmth and the damp, and the smooth cage of your teeth. It isn't a kiss so much as an exploration, as him losing himself in the feeling of you. It sends a trickle of warmth down your gut - to have him intrude so intimately, so selfishly, and to hear the way it excites him - not helped by the way his body is suddenly pressing into you.

He’s breathing quick and shallow breaths through his nose, as if he has to work to regulate his temperature. After taking his fill of the rest of your mouth, his tongue returns to yours, eager to demonstrate its versatility as it turns from hard and probing to soft and rippling, massaging in a way that has your heart racing and your mind roaming to the gutter. You feel as if you aren't fully in control of your faculties; your arms wrapping around his neck without you remembering you'd told them to move, your legs slightly displaced by the dress shoe planted possessively between your feet. His hands in your hair have the perfect grip, the pads of his fingertips massaging your scalp in a way that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, but you want more. You want his hands everywhere.

"Connor," You manage, detaching yourself from his mouth with a little difficulty. He doesn't want to let you go, his delayed reaction exciting you more than it should. As you talk his fingers never stop moving in your hair, down the back of your neck, indulging in the softness, experimenting with light, ticklish touches and something firmer and more needy. You slide your own fingers into his hair, carding them through, feeling the soft, synthetic fibers part like real human hair. You can't believe this is happening. Did you die earlier today? You'd believe it, if he didn't feel so real against you. "What's going through that head?"

"You." He replies. He sounds breathless, you've never heard him sound so thoroughly undone. You tighten your grip on his hair, taking it in your fist, tugging just enough that his lip quirks and he let out a small groan. You can't hurt him, obviously, and you don't want to - but you do want to make a point.

"Do you want me to touch you, Connor?" His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth hanging open; he’s breathing so heavily, so urgently, you can hear the vibration low and deep in his chassis. "Answer me. I need to hear it."

"Yes..." He says at once, voice distorted by the vibration in his biocomponents. "I want... I...don't know... how...but-..." He groans again when you pull more roughly on his hair. "Yes... Yes, I want..."

"You're a deviant," Your voice is quiet. Connor opens his eyes, still dark with lust. Your grip eases and you stare at each other for what feels like a long time. Finally, he nods. He looks absolutely debauched; LED a brilliant red; body trembling beneath your hands, stricken with anxiety and desire in equal measures. It’s so... so incredibly human. The fear, the guilt, and the lust that drowns it all out; the mindless, all-devouring desire to just let go, to just take what you want. To be the object of that want, to be that source of the desperate need that threatens to consume him, is enough to make your knees weak as you think about what he'll do to you. Your hands come around to cup his jaw. "Good."

His LED cycles yellow and you feel him relax against your hands, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. He stares so deeply into your eyes, even without a scan he knows you’re telling the truth, that he's safe with you, and that whatever comes next, he can trust you to see him through it. He turns his head to plant a kiss to the palm of your hand. The feeling of his lips against your skin is already enough to make you forget the seriousness of what this means. Right now, all that matters in the world is inside this apartment. His eyes flicker up to yours, with his mouth still pressed against your hand, and you can see that he’s desperate to lose himself in this moment with you. If he’s a deviant, then he’s going to make the most of it. He trails kisses down your palm to the inside of your wrist, never once breaking eye contact. When he's done he pulls your hand up over his shoulder, forcing you closer to him. 

"I want to touch you." His voice is low. "I want to be touched by you. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, that's alright," You murmur, unable to hide the smile curling around your lips. "I should hope so after that move you pulled on the piano."

"Did you like that?" He's smiling too, properly this time. Freely. It only slightly lessens the intensity in his eyes. He's started to walk you backwards, towards the hallway, and the door to the bedroom. Excitement floods your system.

“Mhm." You trail your fingers down the back of his neck. As he pushes you backwards his face keeps dipping closer, his nose almost brushing yours, his lips always threatening to kiss you again. He's so insistent, so ready, it begs the question... "How long have you been thinking about this?"

Connor bites his lip, an expression you've never seen him do before and one that suits him tremendously, and pauses in his efforts to get you into his bedroom. "Not from the beginning."

"But..?" You press, and Connor looks over the top of your head, clearly in a pickle. "I'll tell you if you tell me."

He seems to agree that that's a suitable exchange. 

"I remember one day you were wearing this shirt..." He pins you to the spot with his gaze while his fingers slip to your collar, popping one button, then the next. He looks down, eyes lingering on the exposed skin, the peep of your collarbones. "Before then I had only heard about attraction. It was something I understood in theory but never thought would be compatible with my primary directives. It was human. I knew I liked being around you before then, but I refused to acknowledge that that might not be... allowed. I dismissed it as a predesignated reaction to a good social relationship. I saved my experiences with you for future use, like I was collecting data, evidence, to support my development. I was stupid."

He traces your collarbones with a light touch, his fingertips mapping the curve of your bones, the texture of your skin, learning through touch all of the things he's been waiting to experience.

"And then you wore this." 

At the note of irritation in his voice, you have to stifle a laugh: "My shirt triggered an existential crisis?"

"It made no sense. It was just a piece of material, but I couldn't stop looking at you. Some... some part of me wanted you then. I didn't know why, or how, but it kept interrupting my basic functions - like a virus." His look is somewhere between coy and intensely serious, his hands dropping just a little lower, edging down the line of buttons. "You infected me."

"It kinda sounds like the shirt infected you," You step back, away from him and his wandering hands. "Maybe I should leave you two alone for a little while, it sounds like you have a lot to talk...about..."

Connor's interruption isn't sudden or rough; he doesn't sweep you off your feet and carry you into the bedroom, or silence you with a kiss. No, at first you don't even see him coming. He lowers his face very slowly to your throat, to the little indentation between your clavicles, and your words trail off at the feel of his lips pressing a long, burning kiss to your skin. His arms come around your back to support you as he peppers kisses across every inch of your throat and jaw and the top of your chest, the feel of his firm, warm lips and the occasional press of his teeth and poke of his tongue making you lose your train of thought.

"I’ve thought about this too... What it would feel like..." You breathe, your hands falling to his shoulders, and the perfectly tailored contours of his jacket. You trace the circle of his collar, his tie, the buttons leading down his shirt. He hums against your neck and suddenly your back meets the wall right beside the bedroom door. Connor stands in front of you, planting his feet wide, walling you in as he continues his assault on your neck. 

Your hands map out each individual component of his jacket: the serial number, the model type, the LED armband and triangle; the changes in texture between the different materials of his jacket that you’d never even noticed were there.

"I remember the first time I realized you wanted to be around me, when you stayed close even when you didn't need to... The way you looked at me, I... Connor, I've never wanted anyone so badly..."

With your back safely supported and his mouth anchored to your throat, he's free to roam with his hands. He grips and massages at your sides, your hips, the swell of your breasts - everywhere he can reach, all at once, urgent and indulgent, but more gentle than necessary, as if he's been waiting for this for months and he’s afraid to ruin his chance. Your fingers drop down to rest on his belt buckle - not doing anything with it yet, just resting your hands there. It's enough to get his attention.

He draws his head up until his forehead rests against yours, so close you can see the tiny details in his eyes, the manufactured rings masquerading as real pupils, real irises. You can see the long, synthetic eyelashes and the tiny freckles and pores of his skin and the planes of plastic painstakingly crafted beneath. You've never seen anything so beautiful. You just want to kiss him everywhere: his cheeks, his eyes, his ears; to lick and bite, to spend the rest of your life exploring him - the desire is debilitating, hitting you like an invasive thought, consuming your neural pathways until all you can think about is him.

While you're devouring him with your eyes, he's doing the same to you. His hand cups your cheek and you turn your face into his touch, kissing his thumb, smiling as his fingers trace your ear, your jaw, the pulse-point at your throat. 

"Are you sure you want this?" His voice is soft, sincere but still warm with excitement and desire.

"Yeah, I want this." You slide your hands around his slender waist and lean up to catch his bottom lip between yours, pulling with your teeth. He gasps a little, clearly not expecting the gentle bite. Your hands settle back on his belt, and you like the way his breath hitches again as you tug his hips closer to yours, bending your knee to nudge against his outer leg. 

That’s all it takes. He pushes up against you suddenly, his hips pressing against yours, his mouth swallowing your gasp at the sudden contact. You lose track of what you were trying to do when his tongue slips back into your mouth and he grinds slow and deep and rough against you. You moan shamelessly into his mouth at the feel of something hard rutting against the inside of your leg, in tandem with his own startled gasp, like he's never felt this before. Eventually you reconnect with your brain and continue to press with your knee until he realizes what you're trying to do. He acquiesces, but not eagerly - pressing you against the wall with his body, almost eating you alive, as if he's more inclined to ignore your request and just pin you here and fuck your brains out.

Finally, after you begin to whimper and tug more insistently at his clothes, he releases your mouth and turns so his back is against the wall with you in front.

The bedroom forgotten for a moment, your fingers - once so deft and precise over the piano keys - fumble with the buttons of his shirt. You pull, probably too tightly, at his tie in your rush to get it off, but Connor looked totally enraptured - blissed out, staring down at you. You smirk and pull harder, enjoying the way his mouth opens in shock and lust as the material tightens around his throat. 

You get the impression you're both discovering things about him. This is something to keep in mind.

Keeping the tie in your fist, you slip your hand past the belt buckle to rest lightly against his zipper. Android anatomy isn't exactly your strong suit, but there's definitely something under there. 

"Have you ever..." You begin, although you're pretty sure you know the answer. Connor shakes his head, unable to speak, his body tense under your touch. "What about by yourself?"

A look crosses his face: is that guilt? The way he's standing, back pressed against the wall, biocomponents whirring, eyes fixed on you, already looking fucked out of his mind when you’ve barely even touched him, all of it awakens something in you. You feel beautiful. Beautiful and powerful.

"Do you think about me?"

You begin to rub very lightly, pressing your palm against the hardness between his legs. His head falls back, throat bobbing, and you lean in to kiss the exposed skin, feeling it vibrate beneath your lips as he speaks: "Ye-... Yes."

"Tell me," You purr. It’s almost like the plastic is thinner here, you can practically feel the buzz of electricity; the wires and thirum rushing beneath.

"I didn't know what was... ah... wrong with me. The first time... was at the station..." He rushes the last part as if he's ashamed, but his hand comes down against yours and gently - as if you won’t notice - presses you more firmly against his clothed erection. "I had to... what I was feeling... I had never..."

"No," You stop moving your hand but he doesn’t release it, continuing to move it for you as if he can’t bear to let you stop. "Describe it."

The idea of Connor excusing himself from the bullpen because he was too horny to wait? Fuck.

Of course, Connor remembers it as if it had just happened - he can recall it as if it’s happening right now, if he wants, but he doesn’t; he can’t bear to miss a moment of actually being here with you. He had stored the memory away safely, and like the rest he returned to it often - more often than he would admit to you, at least for now.

It had been an ordinary Monday: Hank was grappling with a hangover; Connor was sitting at his desk, catching up on new cases or any developments in existing ones. It was early, and although the station’s never completely quiet, that morning it had been abuzz with excitement. One of the officers had recently become engaged, and he and some of his colleagues had celebrated over the weekend. Connor hadn’t really been listening, but it was impossible for him to block out the noise altogether without switching off his audio processor - a tempting thought, but not very sensible. Against his will, a number of choice words and terms had been picked up by his CPU and translated, leaving him with some very distracting images - all of which were, to put it mildly, not safe for work. On an ordinary day he could simply ignore them, like closing a tab on a web browser, but for some reason he hadn’t been able to do that this time. Maybe it was because some of those terms were spoken by you. You hadn’t been with them that weekend, but they’d all enjoyed regaling you with the details over the course of the morning. You’d laughed along, pressed for more details, shared inside jokes, and whenever a high-ranking officer came close you dropped your voice to a low whisper, eyes lit up and mouth curled in a kind of wicked delight that Connor hadn’t been able to look away from. You’d never spoken to him like that, and the fact that you likely never would had weighed more heavily on him than it should have.

Even when you excused yourself, leaving the boys to continue talking amongst themselves, Connor couldn’t detach himself so easily. The more he thought about what you’d been saying, the more his mind became drawn into this part of human life that he had no business observing. He had tried not to picture you in that context - it was wrong and he knew it. But the scenarios had constructed almost against his will, and he hadn't dismissed them as quickly as he should have.

It wasn’t until Hank groaned and shifted in his chair like he was about to vomit that Connor snapped to attention. That’s when he realized the... unexpected physical reaction. 

Connor had known what it was, obviously, but to say it took him by surprise was an understatement. When Hank suddenly dropped his fist on the table, loud enough to disrupt the officers who’d decided to continue the conversation just a bit too long, Connor almost jumped out of his chair.

Hank looked at him at once: “Fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Connor said at once, perhaps a bit too quickly. His chair was pushed in enough that Hank couldn’t see the erection threatening to split his zipper. The lieutenant didn’t look overly convinced, but maybe his hangover worked in Connor’s favour because he went back to scrolling through his tablet without sparing the android another glance. Connor had stayed seated for as long as he could, trying to override whatever programme malfunction he’d suffered from, but eventually it became clear nothing was working. He’d grabbed a file and used it to cover his shame on his way to the bathroom, thankfully meeting nobody along the way - he couldn’t think who would be worse to run into: Gavin, Fowler, or you.

Safely tucked away in a bathroom stall, Connor was alone with his problem. He’d tried once more to deactivate it internally, but it didn’t budge. Maybe it was the lingering images from the eavesdropped conversation that brought him to an alternative solution. Gingerly, almost like he was touching someone else, Connor had unbuttoned his jeans and revealed the source of his current misery. 

Since android skin was capable of molding superficial details, including genitalia, most units were capable of having them - the RK series was no different. Whether or not it had a real purpose in his day-to-day duties was another matter. That day, it had seemed more like an annoyance; far, far more trouble than it was worth. He regarded it with contempt, and when he did reach down to grip the shaft, he treated it like a tool - a problem to be dealt with quickly and efficiently, as was his nature.

"At first I thought it was an error, but... my diagnostics were normal.” His voice as he explains his past predicament to you is very quiet, low and thick and strained, but his eyes are on yours and there’s something devilish in them - as if he knows exactly what his words are doing to you. "I thought I was doing it wrong... I couldn’t feel anything... ah... Then I thought about you."

Maybe it should have concerned you, the fact that this android had fantasized about you, but it would make you a massive hypocrite. You'd spent more than one night riding your vibrator and imagining it was him. You take control back of your hand, continuing to rub him, turning his voice stuttered and breathless as he continues to talk.

Connor had gritted his teeth, pumping quickly and passionlessly, eyes locked on the door - ears pricked for any sign he might be interrupted. He’d heard the air being pumped in and out of his nose, an involuntary reaction to keep his systems cool, and for some reason he’d found the sound irritating. Connor was an android, he was the deviant hunter, an advanced prototype, and there he was: masturbating in a bathroom stall. He was the same as the officers who’d been discussing their filthy sexual exploits - maybe even worse.

That’s when his mind had turned to you, and almost immediately, a new sensation shot from his groin all the way up his spine, and he gasped aloud. He had clasped a hand over his mouth in shock, thankful no one was in the bathroom to hear him.

"I thought about you coming into the bathroom, looking for me... I thought... I thought about you finding me... Like this... You'd... You'd lock the door and kiss me... I thought about your mouth... Your hands... On... Ah..." His hips are moving, grinding mindlessly against your palm. He's so sensitive, you're a little anxious about pushing him too far, but you decide to take your chance. Pulling hard on his tie, you slowly drop to your knees. Connor, who at first looks offended that you've removed your hand, suddenly looks ravenous at the sight of you slowly slipping his belt free and drawing down his zipper. His build is so narrow you're half-surprised his jeans don't slip right off of him, but they need a little coaxing to pull down - perfect fit, obviously.

"Carry on," You prompt, before he gets too distracted by your hands pulling him free. 

"I... ah..." He seems completely lost - struggling to give you the detail you want without getting distracted by what you’re doing to him. It’s almost funny: this advanced prototype, the big scary deviant hunter, losing his mind because of your hands on his cock. "I think about you all the time... Everywhere... I sometimes... configure scenarios."

You feel him thread his fingers into your hair. The phallus Cyberlife graciously gifted him with is remarkably human. The only real abnormality is the bluish tinge to his skin, and as your fingers stroke slowly up and down, you notice the texture is slightly off. It's too smooth, almost like silicon, but there are shallow ridges running down the length of the shaft - you doubt those are purely aesthetic. It makes you want to abandon your plan and beg him to just fuck you, now.

He's waiting, watching you. Looking up at him, you breathe against his tip: “Scenarios like this?"

You feel the shudder ripple across his entire body. Connor's grip on your hair tightens just a little, as if it’s taking all of his willpower not to push you against him, sink himself into the wet heat of your mouth, the space his tongue had already mapped out and stored to memory. 

"Y-es..!” His voice rises at the end when you take the tip into your mouth, the flat of your tongue pressing against the warm synthetic flesh. The admission had an immediate effect on your body. You felt your nipples ache and a dampness forming between your legs - he'd thought about this? You can imagine him, eyes squeezed closed, teeth agonising his bottom lip, hand twisting and tugging at the cock that you now welcomed into your mouth. Was he vocal? Did he say your name? You desperately wanted to know the answer, but with Connor's hands tangled in your hair and the tip of his cock almost hitting the back of your throat, you're a little occupied. You wrap your tongue around him, alternating between soft and firm pressure, sucking hard every now and then and catching him off-guard, pulling every sinful noise out of the android as you can.

His back arches a little over you, his hands warm against your scalp but not forceful - he's letting you control the pace, which you have to admit is sensible; even if the idea of him losing control, chasing his own end, excites you in theory, you might be less appreciative in practice. He's so much stronger than you are, and you're already pushing your limit with how much of him you can take in at once. 

His knees start to shake and you hum appreciatively at such a human response. It makes you wonder what this feels like for him. Instead of nerves and hormones, Connor has sensors, thirium and biocomponents. What happens when sensors become over-stimulated? Is it painful? Dangerous? Connor doesn't seem like he's worried about anything, he's almost bending over you, one hand tight in your hair and the other pressing against the back of your neck, but he also said he hasn't done this with anyone before. You slide back, taking him out of your mouth but keeping your hand on him, just in case the sudden absence of touch triggers an unexpected response from the android.

He does look down at you, exhaling a puff of hot air that feels dry against the saliva coating your lips. You could almost laugh at the look he gives you, he looks like he's about to cry.

"You need to tell me if we go too far, okay?" Your voice is clear, and you don't move until he acknowledges it. He unfolds, straightening his back until the back of his head bumps the wall. He sighs like a spoilt child. You sit back on your heels, quirking a brow up at him: "Connor, you're the first android I've been with. I don't know what your capacity is. I don't want to hurt you."

Connor looks down at you then, and the dark look on his face sends another erotic shiver through you. Wordlessly, he reaches down to press his fingers beneath your chin, guiding you upwards. The gentle pressure under your chin becomes a firm grip around your throat as you stand. He steps away from the wall, holding you in a grip that's just on the right side of uncomfortable. He can feel your pulse racing against his fingers and thumb, and the breath coming with more and more difficulty from between your parted lips - still wet and swollen from servicing him.

He turns you around again, so your back is against the wall. When he releases your throat you want to whine, but then he drops slowly to his knees in front of you.

Fuck, are you even going to make it to the bedroom?

Connor's hands wrap around your waist, palms curving around your back, fingers digging into your spine to tug you forwards. He watches in silence as you unbutton your shirt, and the second it hangs loose he presses his face into the bare skin of your stomach, not even giving you a chance to shrug it off. His leaves soft kisses across your tummy, and down to the hipbones protruding slightly from the waistband of your trousers. One hand works to undo your pants while the other gently tugs the material down, one side at a time, so he can put his mouth to work against the hard curves of your pelvis. When you feel his teeth latch onto the bone you gasp, fingers settling in his hair - although you're not sure if you want to pull him away or push him closer. He glances up at you, LED spinning a lazy, calm blue that you find... annoying. Maybe he sees the look on your face, because the next thing you know he's tugging your trousers and underwear down your legs. The flicker of amber on his temple gives you some satisfaction at least, as does the feel of his hot breath against you.

Connor runs his hands up your legs, starting at your ankles and sliding up past your calves to the underside of your knees. He tugs one leg up over his shoulder, leaving you exposed and already breathless with anticipation.

Yeah, you might've imagined something like this the moment you heard about his habit of sticking his fucking tongue into everything... but that was before you knew what that tongue felt like.

You gasp loudly, shamelessly, at the hard, textured rub that starts at your already-soaked entrance and runs slowly, thoroughly, upwards until it drags heavenly across your clit.

"Fu...fucking hell, Connor..." You almost sound mad. Connor enjoys it; he enjoys the sounds you're making, the words that fall, clumsy and thoughtless, out of your mouth as he touches you. He thought he'd never see you like this, that he'd never hear you. He thought he'd never get to taste you. The pure want that courses through him is almost painful, as he's hit with the full force of his desire. As he realizes just how badly he wants this.

He digs his fingertips into your back more tightly, until you feel the knots in your muscles pop and shift, and presses his tongue flat against you. He's got you exactly where he wants you and he isn't going to waste a second. Rubbing the full spread of his tongue against your clit, with each tiny sensor dragging roughly against your oversensitive nerves, is enough to make your head fall back. You've heard of seeing stars, but it's never actually happened to you before. Now, fainting seems like a realistic concern.

"Conn...-ah!" His tongue ripples maddeningly, then flexes, prodding and poking and wriggling pointedly against a spot that makes your walls clench. The perfect, white-hot spot that no one else - sometimes not even you - can find, but he uncovered it with ease and now he's going to abuse it until you're whimpering and writhing under his grip. "Please... Connor... I can't..."

Your nipples are so hard they hurt. Your thighs are shaking so much you can barely stand, but Connor's grip is firm. He won't let you fall. Your fingers tug at his hair, his clothes, useless to deter him from his goal. You'd wanted to make this last longer, you'd wanted to see him come undone first, but Connor and his fucking tongue had different ideas. 

So when he suddenly removes his tongue, you almost sob in surprise and frustration. You can't look at him, you feel like you can't move at all, but you're sure he's got a smug fucking expression on his face as he cranes his neck and suddenly dives down, tongue driving up into your slick entrance. Connor groans, and the vibration's almost enough to bring you back to the edge. His tongue pumps in and out of you, hard and flexible and rough like nothing you've ever felt before.

However this feels for you as he fucks you slow and deep with his tongue, Connor is feeling something just as, if not more intense. Connor can taste, but not like a human can; it's better than that. It's like a whole other sense; it's almost like interfacing: he can taste your DNA, your individual flavour, your pleasure, your body. It's like a feedback loop: your pleasure triggers his core directive that craves praise and success, so his processors reward him with pleasure for capturing you like this, so he works harder to get more from you, and so on and so on until you're both moaning and shifting your hips. If he wasn't holding you in place, Connor would have his hand around his cock; he's so desperate for friction against his sensors there too - the one place this might feel even better.

This is you. This is your taste. And this feeling it triggers in him? He likes it so much he already knows he'll never, ever get enough of it. But this is a good start: your legs hot and shaking around him, your body pinned go the wall and helpless to resist his advances, the pleasured whimpers and pitiful tugs at his hair and clothes, the way your chest heaves and your hair sticks to your face, damp with sweat and tears as he pushes your body further and further.

Connor pulls his tongue out of you and then presses back down against your clit, right back against that spot, rubbing so furiously that you scream. You know you're gripping his hair too tight, you know you're rutting like an animal against him, you know you're sobbing like a desperate, depraved whore, but you don't care. You're so close. 

When you cum, your body convulses, your breath coming in silent gasps until the white-hot pleasure subsides, at which point you collapse, mumbling his name, against the wall while he continues to work you through the aftershock. He stops the moment it becomes sore, that sinful fucking tongue slipping back into his mouth. He gives you a moment to recover and then gently slides your leg to the ground, but he keeps his hands on you, holding you steady as he stands. In the short time he's been on the ground, you've forgotten how tall he is. Now, it's impossible to miss: he's towering over you, tall and strong and not even remotely finished with you.

"Conn-..." You begin, but you don't get the rest out. He sweeps you up off of the ground, shoving the bedroom door open with one hand, and carrying you easily through the threshold. Before you know it you're lying on the bed, breathless, boneless, completely under his spell. His sheets are soft, cold from disuse and fresh like just-washed linen. They feel like heaven against your hot, sweaty skin. You don't have a chance to take in the rest of his bedroom before the mattress sinks under your combined weight.

He considers not undressing you fully. The idea of fucking you while you're wearing part of your work attire triggers something dark and carnal in him, especially when he thinks ahead to the days after this - when you might come into work wearing it, acting normal, when you'll both know what he did to you when you wore it here. He likes the idea of that shared secret, but he also likes the idea of seeing you without anything on. The latter wins out.

Carefully, still very aware of your exhausted state, he pulls you up until you're on your knees and leans you against him while he pushes off your unbuttoned shirt. When he reaches around you to unclasp your bra, he's about to whisper in your ear to check if you're alright, when your hand on his cock makes him jump. 

"You're a brat," Your voice in his ear makes his body tense. He's still damp from your mouth and the lube leaking out of his tip, it makes it easy for you to move slowly up and down, your grip just a little too tight for him to relax. "Did you think I'd just give you what you want?"

Connor's forehead falls to your shoulder, his weight almost threatening to push you over, but your strength is coming back. He'd unravelled you, now you're going to return the favour.

Your words slipped deep within him, right to the core, right to the unknowable systems and calculations manipulating his every thought and action, where he realizes: yes, he had thought you'd just give him what he wants. He'd thought that because it's who he is, it's what he's made for; he's built to pursue every avenue, execute every available programme, to succeed in getting what he wants. But now look at him. Powerless, shivering uncontrollably, face buried in the crook of your neck as you pump him. Your grip is firm and warm, but it's still only human, and to him that only makes it more intense. He's stronger, smarter, faster; he's the most advanced model CyberLife has ever created; he's the android that other androids fear... and he's about to come apart in your hands.

You set the pace according to him, according to what makes him gasp, what makes him bite down against the soft skin of your shoulder, what makes his hands close around your arms - not too tightly, in case he's worried you'll take your hand away. It's not brutal, but it's purposeful, your wrist twisting in a way that makes him groan. 

"Stop... I can't..." Connor breathes out half-words, half-formed ideas, half-hearted pleas of resistance. He does nothing to stop you. You realize it excites him, renouncing control, letting you touch him like this. His head tips back, exposing the graceful length of his neck and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. You consider stopping to undress him, or telling him to do it while you put your mouth on him again, but this seems to be enough. His hips are bucking, hurrying you along, a staticky noise coming from his open mouth. 

You could stop now. The idea invades, an intrusive thought luring you in with fantasies of the consequences. You imagine his head would snap down, his grip would tighten, he'd level you with a look that'd make your muscles weak all over again. Would some part of him enjoy the edging? Or would he be impatient?

He's dribbling over your hand - you don't know if it's lube or cum or both, but you don't think he's finished yet. Not that you'd really know what that looks like.

"Do you want me to stop?" You bring yourself closer so you mouth is at his chin, your teeth worrying the synthetic skin right below his jaw. The staticky sound is louder here, blurring with a moan as his mouth works uselessly to form words. You slow your pace a little, concerned that you actually are causing some kind of cascading system error. "Connor?"

"Nnnn..." It's almost entirely static, but he drops his head down to look at you, begging with his eyes. His hips are jolting roughly against your hand, so you don't stop. You grow rougher, more insistent, enjoying the look of unabashed pained pleasure on his face. His hands tighten almost painfully on your biceps as his back arches and his head falls back again and the sound of his climax fills the room. Does Connor have neighbours? You sort of hope so. Your hand is soaked, the sheets damp, the wet slide of your hand replacing the staticky moans as his orgasm rushes through his entire body.

You slow to a stop, but he's still hard. Android anatomy - you shouldn't be surprised. You do wonder for a brief moment if that should be a concern. Does he have a refractory period? Does he need rest? Or will he always want to pursue this? If you were an android, you think you would.

Connor's LED is spinning red but it slows and cycles amber as he lowers his head. You can almost hear his systems rebooting, his sensors recovering, the experience no doubt reduced to data and stored away somewhere inside him. You have to wonder if he'll think about this in the future, when he's alone. Will this be one of his favourite memories? Like it will be yours?

Connor finally looks at you, still heaving air into his body to cool everything down. You kind of like how you can reduce him to this. You give him a sheepish smile and a shrug. He cocks his head a little, brown eyes dancing with exhaustion, satisfaction and, as you'd already guessed, the brewing hunger for you that would soon take over.

Using the hand that isn't soaked with his essence, you push back his hair, combing it neatly back into place with your fingers.

"Now we're even," You lean forwards to kiss his LED, pleased to see it return to blue beneath your lips. At the look of disappointment on his face, you laugh.

"Does that mean you want to stop?" He asks, turning his face into your hand, his expression unfairly sweet and innocent, like he hadn't just brought you to the best orgasm of your life.

"I don't know, detective. What do you think?"


	2. Part Two!

Thank you for all of the feedback! I have now written a follow-up you can read here: [Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738274)


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